If I committed follies last night, so much
the better. I struggle no longer against the inevitable, when
the inevitable is the crown and joy of earthly things. For in
sober truth I love her infinitely.
October 6th.
She comes back to-morrow. Antoinette and I have been devising a
welcome. The good soul has filled the house with flowers, and,
usurping Stenson's functions, has polished furniture and book
backs and silver and has hung fresh blinds and scrubbed and
scoured until I am afraid to walk about or sit down lest I should
tarnish the spotless brightness of my surroundings.
"You have forgotten one thing, Antoinette," I remarked,
satirically. "You have omitted to strew the front steps with
rose-leaves."
"I would cover them with my body for the dear angel to walk upon
as she entered," said Antoinette.
"That would scarcely be rose-leaves," I murmured.
Antoinette laughed. "And Monsieur then! He is just as bad. Has
he not put new curtains in the room of Mademoiselle, and a new
toilette table, and a set of silver brushes and combs and I know
not what, as for the toilette of a princess? And the eiderdown
in pink satin? _Regardez-moi ca!_ Monsieur can no longer say
that it is I alone who spoil the dear angel.
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